A few words away from a Bruno Mars song
by SweetG
Summary: Stiles barges into the room, hair disheveled and cheeks flushed, mouth open. Cora lifts an eyebrow at him. "Do you mind?" She asks, fighting her own amusement. "Do I-" That's when he looks down, takes on her current state of undress, turns around and practically breaks his nose by bumping against the door facefirst. "Fu-"


Stiles barges into the room, hair disheveled and cheeks flushed, mouth open.

Cora lifts an eyebrow at him.

"Do you mind?" She asks, fighting her own amusement.

"Do I-" That's when he looks down, takes on her current state of undress, turns around and practically breaks his nose by bumping against the door facefirst. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

Cora's comfortable with nudity, it's something she's been raised thinking of as natural; there's nothing shameful in skin and flesh and the insinuation of bone.

Stiles is different. Human, in every single aspect. So very impressionable.

The sight of her breastbone makes his heart race, and her exposed belly makes him sweat.

She likes it, likes the boyishness in that.

She smirks, not that she'll let Stiles know that.

"You could always learn to knock," she says, getting up from the bed, still naked, walking to her dresser.

She can hear Stiles' righteous indignation, can feel the uptick of his heart.

"Well, so could all of you and I don't see you trying!"

Cora tries to hide a smile and fails.

"I've never come into your room while you're naked, to be fair." She replies with a mockingly saintly tone, opening one of her drawers lazily, contemplating her underwear.

"By a sheer fucking miracle, probably." Stiles mutters under his breath, knuckles rapping softly against the door.

"Maybe." She agrees, examining her underpants much more than she generally does and than is likely needed; she's a practical person, all her underwear is sort of dark or dark-ish and there's nothing overly fancy to behold (nothing lacy or frilly or whatever). It generally takes her two minutes tops to choose something and slip it on.

"Okay, could you hurry up and get dressed already?" Stiles prompts her, sounding hilariously pained.

That makes her lift an eyebrow.

She turns around to face him and leans against her dresser (the cold makes her shiver a little, goosebumps running over her), crosses her arms over her chest (her nipples are hard, possibly from the cold, probably from the fact that Stiles is a few feet away, his back turned to her but still attuned to her).

"If my naked body is so offensive to you, maybe you could go wait outside like a normal person instead of standing there suffering my nudity like a fucking martyr."

It comes out sounding harder than she intended, less joke and more bitterness.

She knows it's not the case, can practically taste it in the air, can drink it through her mouth and her nostrils, but just thinking that maybe Stiles doesn't want to see her naked -has no desire for her- is particularly upsetting.

Stiles is rendered silent and immobile by that. It makes Cora weirdly nervous, makes her feel smaller.

"Are you actually serious, right now?" Comes Stiles' voice, then. It sounds incredulous, maybe a little breathy. "Are you fucking serious?"

"What?" She asks defensively, feeling her eyebrows dip over her nose.

"Ok, Stiles, you're gonna get your ass kicked for this, bro." He mumbles, before turning around and looking her dead in the eye, cheekbones tinted an angry red. "You are the most attractive woman I've ever seen, are you kidding me? Your face could make angels weep. Your- Your body-" He coughs, and she can see the effort he's making to avoid looking anywhere below her shoulders. "Your body is the stuff of legends and paintings and fitness magazines. And when I look at you I want to either bash my head against a wall out of frustration or compliment you on your genetics."

Cora can feel her own heart tripping over itself, has to consciously stop herself from rubbing her hand right over the aching spot on her chest.

Stiles is still holding her gaze, cheeks burning and lips in a thin line. His body is filled with tension, rigid. "You are gorgeous. And I can't believe you're making me say it."

Cora can't help a self-satisfied smile at that.

"Really?" She asks then, uncrossing her arms and leaning a little more on the dresser, putting herself completely and shamelessly on display.

Stiles' eyes stray for maybe a second, before going back to her eyes. He's sporting the look of complete indignation that makes Cora feel ridiculously warm inside.

"You are the freaking devil." He practically hisses it, before turning around and stomping to the door. "I'll be waiting outside, before you actually kill me."

And Cora has to laugh at that, really.

* * *

It occurs to her while she's rummaging around her sock drawer a few minutes later that Stiles never even told her why he'd come into her room.

She tries to not feel terribly smug about Stiles completely forgetting the reason why he was there in the first place, but not that hard.

You're gorgeous, she hears in her mind while she's putting her shirt on.

If it makes her bury her face in her hands and smile wide and gone and loose like she hasn't been in years (she won't try and think about that, pin down the last time, she can't, there's too much pain and too many wounds that haven't healed, and she'll biter her lips in an effort not to howl and then she'll look at Derek and wonder if-), that's nobody's business but her own and there's no witnesses, anyway.

"I think you'll kill me before I kill you, Stilinski." She mumbles, tying her shoelaces.

* * *

Stiles reminds her of that one all the time; they'll be fooling around and he'll lean over her, bite her shoulder and say, "remember the time with the exhibitionism?" like the little shit he is. And Cora will roll her eyes at him, grab his hair and tug, knock him flat onto the bed and climb on top of him, get him where she wants him, nose at his neck and show him what a real bite is: teeth and tongue and fucking intent and a wet trail that she'll blow a puff of warm air on, to make Stiles moan.

"What?" She'll ask, a little out of breath, grinding down on Stiles. "That time you came into my room unannounced and perved on me? And then recited poetry about how pretty I am?"

Stiles will grin, big and bright and fucking shit eating like he's won something, and he'll put his hands on her hips, help her set a rhythm that's less desperate-teenagers-rutting-their-way-into-a-pants -on-orgasm and go, "yep, that one. Fun times, right?"

"Yeah," she'll concede then, taking her shirt off, "fun times. Now get undressed, we don't have all day."

Stiles will smirk at that; he will say, "sometimes I forget how charming you can be." But he will comply, and then he'll look at her and fumble with his belt.

"I still want to punch you, sometimes." Is what she'll answer to that, but without any heat, and she'll help Stiles with his pants (because he's fucking useless sometimes, and she doesn't want a repeat of that one time with the actual broken nose, Jesus Christ), and she'll drag the boxers down with them too.

"You're so—"

"If you finish that sentence I'm getting up and leaving."

"Shutting up now."

"Good."

And she'll let him pin her down, she'll let him nose all the way down her body, let him put his nose right over her underwear, as if he were a fucking wolf like her, scenting. She'll put a hand on his head, and grab the sheets with the other one as he tugs her panties off maddeningly slowly, throws them somewhere over his shoulder.

She'll gasp when the tip of his tongue touches her clit, tug his hair when it dips all the way to the place where she's so wet and lap, get a finger there, rub, slide inside without any resistance, fuck her with it at an easy pace until she starts grunting in frustration and then get another one in while his tongue circles her nub.

He'll keep that up forever, with that absurd oral fixation of his, will keep going until Cora is trying not to thrash and trembling with the effort, until she spits out, "Stiles, I swear I'm gonna kill you if you don't fuck me right now"

And Stiles will roll his eyes at her, roll on one of his glow in the dark condoms (Cora pretended to hate them at first, but it's worrying how fond she really is of them) and ask, "so how do we do this?"

And Cora will take the lead then because she can and because she enjoys it and because she's fucking allowed; she'll make him lie down and she'll line herself up and guide him inside, holding his gaze, commanding him to keep his eyes open. She'll ride him with a vengeance, precise and deep but so slow. Her hand will tremble a bit on his abs, but she'll manage to school her face into a mask of complacency at the way Stiles is a blabbering mess, hands on her waist, on her breasts, on her face, tracing her lips, making their way inside for Cora to suck on them (tasting herself on his skin).

It'll be when Stiles starts pleading, eyes big and a bit pathetic, that she'll give in and go faster, undulating and grinding and scratching him a little because the freak likes the marks (and she does too, not that she'll ever admit it).

* * *

When they're done, Cora will probably throw Stiles off the bed just because, and he will glare at her from the floor and then they'll shower together (and neither will pretend that they're doing for the environment or whatever).

* * *

Once, Cora will tell him "You're the most attractive man I've ever seen.", batting her eyelashes. And Stiles will roll his eyes and smile a little private lopsided smile as he leans in to kiss her.


End file.
